


handkerchiefs and early hours

by agotdamnclown



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: (in a way?), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Injury, Insecurity, Nightmares, One Shot, donnie honey im so sorry that an ugly ass bitch like me would do this, idk im posting this at 3 am lol, kind of mini drabbles i guess?, no beta we die like men, post-many unhappy returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agotdamnclown/pseuds/agotdamnclown
Summary: It’s stupid.He knows it’s stupid.So why can't he stop thinking about it?
Relationships: Donatello & Leonardo & Michelangelo & Raphael (TMNT)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 196





	handkerchiefs and early hours

**Author's Note:**

> or: an idea in the shower that accidentally became more  
> this fic takes place after the season 2 episode "many unhappy returns"

It’s stupid.

He _knows_ it’s stupid.

But even then, he can’t stop thinking about it. And he _hates_ it.

The rest of his family had taken it relatively well (at least, he hoped they did.) A few hours of sleep plus some rented movies, and the past few nights had been basically forgotten. He tried to forget about it, too. But it wasn’t as easy for him as it was his siblings, his father.

(they didn’t lose their life’s work, everything that mattered to them _second_ most. they got it easy. right?)

He hates thinking like that. He feels selfish, whiny, and every other word to describe the thoughts that scream at him. Why should he feel like he had it the worst? His brothers worked hard too, it was _their_ fight too. _‘Stop being selfish. Everyone else didn’t have it all peaches and roses, smart guy. Get over it.’_

He wants to get over it, he really does. But how can he when the events of that night rear their ugly heads in every way possible? How can he just _get over it_ when reminders of what he lost are right in his bedroom?

* * *

Some nights his eyes wander to where his battle shells lay, lay waiting for use, for protection and for the high feeling of _invincibility._ Sometimes he feels unstoppable when he wears one. He feels like he can take on any mutant monster thrown at him, feels like he can take on Draxum himself. He feels like he can take over the _world._

He felt that way when he stood face to face with the Shredder, his life’s work surrounding him in a beautiful purple glow. He felt like he had that moment, like he could finish the ongoing battle right then and there. It could have been _his_ moment.

How foolish he was.

It was all gone. In the blink of an eye, his ~~only~~ greatest strength had been torn to shreds. Weeks, _months_ of all-nighters suddenly became worthless, and he was left with nothing. The next thing he knew, that monster was tearing through the armor on his back like it was one of those stupid paper ninjas. Past the searing pain of claws meeting bare shell and blinding _panic_ , he felt stupid. _‘Foolish, dumb, idiotic,_ stupid. _What were you thinking? You had to be the hero and now you’ve lost everything.’_ He was only saved by a damn handkerchief. Worthless.

That night, he tore his battle shell into scrap parts and trashed his mirrors. He didn’t want reminders of his failure.

* * *

Some nights, his mind wanders back to those events in the form of dreams. He tried to stave it off by working twice as hard and drinking triple the amount of coffee than usual. 

It was stupid. But he wasn’t able to avoid it forever.

_That thing's running straight for him, on all fours like a wild animal. His tech lays in pieces before him- surrounding him,_ mocking _him. He wants to move, he wants to run and scream and cry like he’s a little kid again, but his legs feel like tree roots and his mouth feels seared shut. He puts everything he can into fleeing, into moving a damn_ inch, _but it’s all pointless. Pointless. Like everything else._

_Shredder’s tearing through his only line of defense, and he can only think of how pointless everything was. His brothers are nowhere in sight, and he can feel the blinding pain from his shell. The handkerchief doesn’t appear. Pointless._

Pointless.

The next morning, he takes Modafinil with his coffee and gets back to work.

* * *

  
  


Some nights, the dreams become too much for him to handle. Some nights, he looks at the remains of his best battle shell and can almost feel the sharp claws tearing into his shell. Some nights, he feels a cold pit in his stomach when he turns to ask S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. something, only to get no response. 

(he’s gone. just like everything else.)

Whenever it becomes too much to handle, he ends up going to one of his brothers. 

When the overwhelming fear of how close he was to getting more than some shallow scars on his shell weighs his body down, when the scrap pieces of his old shell make him think of _what could have been_ , he goes to Raphael. His oldest brother, the brick wall that refuses to budge under any push, who could and would die to protect his family.

(he hates that about him sometimes.)

When the grief that came with losing everything he spent his life making crashes into him like a tsunami, when he feels like there’s no point into rebuilding everything once it’s all gone, he goes to Michelangelo. His youngest brother, the sunshine of the family, the one who refuses to let anything weigh him down for too long, who can always see the good in everything and everyone.

(he envies that about him sometimes.)

When the overwhelming self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness crush him, when all he can think about is how much better things would have been if he wasn’t there in the first place, he goes to Leonardo. His middle twin, the proud and loud, the one who can always bring a smile to his brothers during their darkest moments, the one who’s just so _good_ at keeping it together and being proud of it.

(he dreams of having that sometimes.)

No matter who he goes to, he’s never able to keep his walls up, much as he wills them to hold strong. As hard as he tries to keep up a mask of calmness, a sense that he doesn’t really care about what happened that night, it never lasts more than half an hour. His brothers never belittle him like he thinks they will, never tell him to just _get over it._ They sit and listen, offering comfort in any way they can think of. Warm hugs and a vow of protection. Vibrant paints and brushes. Hot chocolate and blankets.

They’re there for him. And maybe that’s all he needs.

* * *

Maybe he isn’t selfish for feeling that way. Maybe he is. And maybe it will take time to move on, to rebuild everything, head tall and proud.

And at least he's got a family that stands with him the whole way.


End file.
